


if I faint, pull me out

by kirazi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hot Springs, Pastoral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, but two wet knights, soft marrieds go to Tarth, well technically just one wet man, wet men, yes I wrote another story about them getting it on in the bath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28702656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirazi/pseuds/kirazi
Summary: This isn't practical; it's about pleasure.(Jaime and Brienne enjoy themselves in a hot spring on Tarth, at some point in the post-canon future.)
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 50
Kudos: 198
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange Stocking Stuffers 2020





	if I faint, pull me out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luthien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/gifts).



> Dear Luthien, I saw your prompt for “wet men” and it inspired me to go back and finish something I started back in the summer—so thanks! Please accept this stocking stuffer in lieu of an apology for hijacking you into a new and distracting fandom this fall, because I’m not really sorry. 
> 
> Notes: this can be read as a flash-forward in the Fountainverse (the trip to Tarth they’re planning at the end of A Great Fountain), as a sequel to "stedfast as thou art", as a late epilogue to the Wintefell Sequence, or as a complete standalone—because there's very little context, and even less plot. Title from 3x05, because Jaime likes to repeat himself.

Jaime’s back is bothering him again. It’s clear from the way he’s grimacing as he stretches and swings his arms, trying to shake the ache from his shoulders. Brienne doesn’t feel guilty about trouncing her husband in a friendly spar—he’d been the one to suggest it, after all—but she owes him a remedy. She’s about to go ask one of Evenfall’s chambermaids to draw up a bath for him when a better idea strikes her.

“Game for a ride?” she asks.

Jaime makes a face at her. “Are you trying to run me into the ground, Ser?”

“I thought we might take a picnic supper and go a little ways up the mountainside. There’s something there I wanted to show you,” she tells him, letting her voice soften, her eagerness show on her face. It’s a deliberate manipulation, perhaps—he’s so taken by her enthusiasm for sharing Tarth with him that he’s determined to see and enjoy everything—but she permits herself to indulge in the impulse; it’s for his own good. And she wants to surprise him.

A quarter-hour later, they’re headed out of the stables on two sturdy horses, food and wine packed in Jaime’s saddlebags, and some blankets and linens in hers. She’d told him not to bother washing off before the ride anyhow, and she wonders if he’s guessed where they’re going. But he shows no sign as they make their way along the narrow trail that switchbacks up the slope, up into the rocky, pine-strewn heights. It’s evening already, the sun dipping lower in the sky, preparing to bury itself in the thin hazy line of the mainland across the straits at their backs. The moon will be full and bright tonight; she’s not wary of riding back down after dark. The air grows cooler as they rise, from the dimming light and the breeze off the water and the increasing altitude.

“This way,” Brienne tells him, steering her horse off the mountain path and into small meadow surrounded by a stand of trees. “There’s a stream here, and grass for the horses—we can leave them here and go the rest of the way on foot.”

Jaime hauls down his saddlebags obligingly, but she can see he’s biting his tongue as she leads him down a narrow footpath along the ridge.

“I hope your picnic spot is sheltered from the wind,” he finally says. “If you’re carrying those blankets in hopes of more than just eating supper, that is.”

“No need,” Brienne tells him, smiling, and drops her saddlebag on the stony ground, reaching to pull the hem of her shirt over her head and almost giggling at the expression on his face. “Look,” she says, pointing—and Jaime’s mouth drops open as he follows the line of her finger and sees it, the small steaming pool nestled among the rocks, its pale blue color almost glowing in the sunset-tinted air.

He grins at her and follows suit, dropping his own bags—she winces at the sound of crockery hitting the ground—and stripping off his own tunic with haste, followed by his boots, trousers, and smallclothes. “Why didn’t you tell me—” his voice is muffled as the undershirt goes over his face—“there were hot springs, Ser? I’d have had us on a ship bound here months ago.”

Brienne can’t stop smiling; watching him bound down to the pool like a puppy—the feeling wells up inside her like the water from the rocks. “Careful, put a foot in first,” she warms him. “There should be enough water coming in from the stream to cool it, but if it’s running low the pool can get quite hot.”

Jaime plunges his whole foot in, and groans in shocked pleasure, a noise that goes straight to the place between her legs. It’s absurd, the way a single sound or a heated glance from him can still set her whole body humming, even now, when she’s had him more times than she can count. “It doesn’t even stink,” he moans, ecstatic. “There are hot springs in Dorne, you know, but they stink like a fouled egg, and you have to go hopping in and out to catch a clean breath. This is _perfect._ ”

“There were hot springs in the North, too,” she reminds him, and he scoffs.

“Those gloomy little baths in the Winterfell catacombs? No. The only thing they have in common with this is the pleasure of your company.” The long lines of his body are mostly submerged, now, and he’s still making little gasps and hums as he settles down onto one of the smooth stone ledges that form natural seats, so the water is only halfway up to his shoulders. Still smiling, she rustles through the bags until she finds a skin of water and another of wine, and sets them down on the rocks behind him. Then she strips off the rest of her clothing—Jaime’s eyes had been shut as he soaked in the heat, waiting for her, but now they flicker open and she feels his gaze like a caress as she bares herself to the cool air and the waning light of day, and steps down into the pool.

She makes a soft noise of pleasure, too, as the heated water embraces her, leaching away the small aches and strains of the day. She wades in deeper, meaning to sit next to Jaime, but his good arm comes around her waist and pulls her off balance before she can react, and with an indignant squeak she finds herself swept onto his lap, the familiar long bones and taut muscle of his thighs forming a comfortable seat for her.

Jaime kisses the back of her neck. “Well-played,” he said, his voice rich and low—with fondness, and gratified pleasure, but also with desire, and the promise of other pleasures to come. “Thank you.”

“I thought you’d like it,” she tells him, her voice a soft whisper. She’d come here with Galladon as a child, and later alone, but it’s the first time she’s brought someone else with her. There are plenty of baths in Evenhall. This isn’t practical; it’s about pleasure.

She leans back into him, resting her neck against his shoulder, and lets her feet drifts in the water, the two of them quiet for long moments, relaxed and boneless, breathing in the warm steam as the sunset refracts through the trees. Eventually, Jaime loosens his grip on her long enough to lean over to the pool’s edge to grab the waterskin, flipping it open and drinking deep. Brienne takes the opportunity to spring free of his embrace, spinning around and floating until she’s seated on another submerged stone a sword’s length away, facing him. His eyes follow her, and she’s suddenly aware of the way her insignificant breasts seem to bob at the top of the water, nipples pebbling where they meet the evening air. He’s watching her avidly, making no attempt to hide it.

So she returns the favor—it’s always her first instinct to parry, and there’s just enough dusky light to still make the most of the view. His nipples are hard, like hers, at the waterline—it’s always amused her that they’re the same height when seated; her advantage over him is all in the leg. The graying scatter of hair on his chest has gone damp and curly in the steam, and the hollow at the base of his neck, where her mouth and thumbs fit so well, is reddened. So is the head of his cock, which she can see bobbing, already half-hard, through the milky shimmer of the water. His beard is getting unruly again, but not so much as to hide the nearly smug twist of his smile. The dwindling light picks out the deepening grooves in his forehead and at the crinkle of lines at the corners of his eyes; there hadn’t been so many of them even when he’d been dirty and half-starved, tied to a post in a cage in the Starks’ camp, but she’s glad to see them still; he’s still the most beautiful man she’s ever seen.

“Brienne,” he says, the smile curving deeper—damn the man and his irresistible face—“come here.” She does.

He tips his head back, still grinning, as she stands and wades over, the air chilly on her exposed torso. Before he can pull her down, though, she sets her palms to his shoulders, holding him in place while she bends to kiss him, slow and sweet and hungry. Then she straddles him and lowers herself, balancing her thighs on his knees, deepening the kiss. Jaime wraps his arms around her waist and shifts his hips until his cock bumps up against her, and then suddenly both of them are groaning into each other’s mouths at the sweet drag of the contact. He rocks himself back and forth, hard and hot, and she can feel her flesh grow slick and swollen, even through the heat of the water around them.

Brienne wants to mount him and ride him, do all the work herself this time—to seek satisfaction, and wring the pleasure from his tired body. But he’s cupping her arse with his hand and stump, now, pulling her forward and nudging her upward until she’s kneeling, half-crouched, on the stone ledge where he’s seated. He pauses to suckle one nipple and bite the other, gently, and says it again, his grin wide and wicked: “Come here.” He nudges her higher still, hips out of the water, and then— _oh_ —she understands. She draws herself all the way up, thighs fully extended, until her cunt is hovering right in front of his face, and he buries his grin right there, her breath catching in her throat at the sensation—his lips, his tongue, the scrape of his beard and the blunt broken line of his nose. There are goosebumps on her arms, a shiver running down her back, and she doesn’t care, doesn’t mind if the rest of her is cold because his mouth is so, so warm, warm and wet and moving just where she needs it, licking and nuzzling and sucking while his fingernails scrape along the curve of her arse, pinpricks of pain that only enhance the shocking pleasure. He shakes the climax out of her almost before she can expect it, coming fast and hard and loud, and then he gentles her with a soft lingering kiss while she’s still gasping, bracing herself on his shoulders because her legs have suddenly turned to jelly. The rumbling echoes of sensation are still moving through her as she sinks back into the water, burying her face in his damp shoulder for a moment to catch her breath while he strokes a lazy fingertip up and down the small of her back: patient, waiting.

Brienne kisses his neck, licks the salty line of the tendon there, and catches hold of his cock, the heft and shape of him familiar in her hand. He groans as she strokes him, and groans louder as she rises to straddle his lap and sinks down on him in a slow easy slide, slicker than the surrounding water. She’s accustomed to the feeling, now—full, and hot and so, so good—but it never stops surprising her how well they fit together. She rides him as she’d planned, slow and languorous, enjoying the unsteady rasp of his breathing, the press of his lips at her shoulder, the sting of his teeth at her collarbone. The motion sends the water slapping against the rocks, a steady counterpoint to the low, eager sounds they’re making, murmuring into one another’s skin.

As they move together, she’s surprised to feel the pressure building once more—it’s not usual, for her body to be close again so soon—and Jaime senses it, from the tenor of her moans or the way she’s driving her hips closer and closer, seeking that extra measure of friction. His hand snakes between their bodies until he can stroke her, insistent and quickening, his thumb moving in clever little circles that coax her higher and higher, and this time when she comes it’s in a slow, rolling wave, mellow and sweet, her head tipped backwards to the darkened sky.

When it subsides and she looks back down at his face, the moonlight is shining on his wide eyes and the wet pink lines of his mouth, and she says “Jaime,” suddenly and helplessly, unable to find any other words. She stares back at him, rapt. Then the breathless, suspended moment is over and he’s pulling her close again, all his careful patience evaporating. She kisses him messily as he thrusts up into her, fast and hard, desperate now, gripping her arse, seizing the lead and setting his own pace, until he throws his head back, coming undone with a last few noisy, exultant strokes.

It’s her turn then to cradle him close, then, running her fingers through his damp hair, waiting as he pulls himself back together. Eventually, he says, “If I faint, pull me out,” mumbling the words into her shoulder like he’s tickling her, and Brienne laughs, remembering. She untangles her limbs enough to stand and to reach for the wineskin, then nudges him over so she can sit beside him and swing her legs up over his knees.

“I will,” she tells him, and uncorks the wine. "I promise." Her fingers are wrinkled as the Crone’s face, but she’s in no hurry to get out of the water. The moon will be high for a long while yet.


End file.
